Her eyes open. They’re full of something I don’t have a name for.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say.
She pulls me down, kisses me, and I feel her smile against my mouth.
“Good.”
Afterward, we lie tangled together, her head on my chest, my fingers tracing lazy patterns on her bare shoulder. Her hair is spread across my pillow.
“I need to talk to the reporter,” she says quietly. “Craig Tennant. The one who wrote the article.”
I keep tracing her shoulder. “The guy who broke the story?”
“He knew my dad. If I’m going to tell the story - really tell it - he’s the one who should hear it first.” She pauses. “I want to control the narrative. Not let them keep writing it for me.”
I grin in the darkness. “That’s my linemate.”
She props herself up on her elbow, looking down at me. “I’m not your left wing anymore, Blake. Sorry to break your heart.” She’s smiling.
“No… maybe you’re just my fan now,” I tease her, kissing her until she shivers.
She shakes her head, but she’s smiling. The dim light catches her face, soft and unguarded.
“You should sleep,” she says. “You have a busy day tomorrow. Being a champion. Getting signed. All that.”
“You should stay.”
She doesn’t answer. But then her head finds my chest and her arm slides across my stomach.
I wrap my arms around her, pull her closer, and let myself fall asleep.
LEONORA
I wake to pale morning light and the sound of his breathing.
He’s still asleep, one arm heavy across my waist, his face relaxed. On the ice, he’s always moving, always thinking, always looking for the next play. Here, in the quiet of his apartment, he’s still.
I watch him for a minute. Two.
Then I slip out of bed, find my clothes from last night and pull them on quietly. My phone is on the floor by the bed.
I send the email to Craig and he answers almost immediately.
Call me when you’re ready. —C. Tennant
I stare at the screen. I didn’t expect him to answer so fast. I guess I must be a juicy enough story.
I tuck the phone into my pocket and find my shoes by the door.
Behind me, Zane shifts in bed.
“Going somewhere?”
I turn. He’s propped up on one elbow, hair messy.
“I just have to make a call.”
“The reporter?”
